Scales Without Notes
by One More Bored Writer
Summary: Based on the Little Mermaid, but Sherlock style. Set in olden days, just putting that out there. I'm not entirely sure where this is taking me, so have fun.
1. Navy Blue

Author's Note: I made Harry male, I'm afraid it just fitted better with the story. My only (other) justification is that in the books, Harry Watson is male. And dead. Okay, you're lucky I let Harry live.

* * *

It was traditional for the second son in the Royal Family to do a spell in the Armed Forces, and HRH John H. Watson wasn't an exception. His father was a stickler for tradition and he was confident that it would do John some good. John had wanted to train in medicine, but his father had considered that unnecessary. Why should he bother to train for medicine when he was expected to marry some foreign princess and rule over that kingdom? John had fought hard and in the end he was allowed to join the Navy (as opposed to the Air Force, which his father had wanted him to join) but he had had to give up on the "whole damned medicine business."

The ship that was supposed to bring him back home was becalmed, of all things. John limped over to the side of the ship, leaning on the cane he'd been given. Twenty four and left with a limp, he thought bitterly to himself. Not to mention an ugly scar that clung onto his shoulder. His father would not be glad to see him, John thought to himself. What kind of a king wanted a son who had PTSD, and a psychosomatic limp? Smiling out at the still waters, John remembered the stories that Harry used to tell him.

_Deep under the waters, far deeper than you could swim – _Deeper than you could swim, Harry? – _Yes John, deeper than I could swim, deeper than any cable could measure and deeper than three hundred church spires could reach, live the merfolk. They are like us, but they have fish tails instead of legs like you and me. _

That was how they used to start. They were quite innocent when he was younger but when he was older they followed darker themes, such as mermaids entrancing sailors with their songs, causing them to go mad and jump over side to be with them, wanting to reach the beautiful land, but it is only their cold bodies that reach there. The merfolk then eat them raw, tearing at them with teeth as sharp as daggers.

John's father never liked Harry telling him those stories, so Harry had stopped in time. He had learnt how to deal with all king like affairs, and what he needed to do when their father died. Harry had married a young woman from a nearby kingdom (a political match). John liked Clara, and she had seemed to make his older brother happy at first, but now they seemed unhappier together and the entire family had to pretend not to see how fast Harry's wine glass emptied at state occasions. John sincerely regretted the bond that had been lost between them, but no matter how hard he tried to fix it, it was never the same.

* * *

The humans had chased the merfolk deep beneath the warm surface of the seas aeons ago. Merfolk still loved the light though, drawn to it throughout all their lives. So they lived in the pleasant warmer spots in the sea, so far out that even if a human was looking for them they should not find them. After all, they knew how to hide.

Sherlock's great-great-grandfather had passed the law that meant that merfolk were strictly forbidden from visiting the surface as they used to. This was a rule that Sherlock frequently broke. He had been thirteen the first time that he had worked up the courage to break such a significant rule. He had not known he could breathe through his nose and mouth and didn't have to take in water through the gills in the side of his neck so he'd dipped constantly back under the waves, still exhilarated at all the new sights. Now he knew better.

When Sherlock was even younger he used to go exploring the sunken wrecks, revelling in delight at the beautiful objects he made care to hide away. Over the years he threw away much of the junk, but he kept a few objects. The bag of polished marbles, the strange wooden instrument that seemed fragile with the strings drawn across it that had perished away and the skull from a skeleton he found slumped over the ships wheel, bits of algae growing on the bones, though he had managed to clean most of it off the skull.

At twenty-one years of age, the surface held fewer mysteries for him than before but he still went there regularly, fascinated with the world of the humans. The only one who knew of this habit was his friend Victor, and he often covered for him. Today Sherlock saw a ship so like the wrecks he often saw. Sherlock hid himself in the water, and moved closer to the ship and looked up at the man who was staring at the sea. Sherlock saw the human's eyes move near to him, as though he'd seen him move. Sherlock shrank nearer to the ship, hiding in the shadows. He stayed there for hours, watching people moving around on the ship, remembering his childhood fantasies.

When he was six or seven Mycroft used to tell him about how the humans walked around. How they danced, how they had lands with forests in the air with creatures similar to fish that swam in this cold dry thing called air, though Sherlock understood air far better than Mycroft could now. Mycroft used to tell him of sea battles and how the humans used to catch merfolk and kill them to eat them. How they took them back for show. Sherlock used to tell him he'd become a krodan, their word for the merfolk that used to lure sailors to their deaths. Mycroft would laugh at him.

Sherlock was beginning to drift away, satisfied, when the rain fell down. He smiled, loving storms. He'd often ride the strongest currents under and above the sea, dragging along Victor very often, though he'd complain that they were getting far too old for this now. It was clear that the sailors did not love the storms the way Sherlock did as they ran around, suddenly in frenzied action. Sherlock was blinded as lightening hit the ship, the waves in the water dragging him farther away, now he was struggling to move closer. He could smell the burning wood before he saw it. Men were trying to get into lifeboats that were being tossed around like the rag doll Sherlock found on the surface when he was fifteen. He watched the humans curiously, hiding under the carved stern that had broken off the ship. He wondered where that man was, the one who held the stick and had hair like sandstone.

Sherlock slipped under the water easily, smiling as he saw the man sink. Perhaps he could come down and Sherlock could show him the world under the water. The man seemed so grim... Sherlock propelled himself towards the man, and saw his eyes closing slowly. He remembered how it felt when he forgot to breathe above the sea level and wondered whether that was how the human felt now. No. He couldn't join Sherlock's world. He wrapped his arms under the man's armpits, pulling him upwards to the surface, though the man's eyes did not open. Sherlock rode the currents through the next day, keeping the man's head above water, trying to give him his own body heat when the human's seemed to be failing.

Sherlock wondered whether he'd ever get the human to a safe place when they washed up in a cove that was still deep up until the sand. He managed to get the human onto the sand but still he didn't wake up. He stayed for a long time, hoping to see the man wake up, though he never did. He swam away slowly, taking a further two days to get back to his home, his mind still with the man whose shirt had clung to him, who had a limp, who had hair like sandstone and who had bumpy skin that Sherlock supposed was a scar. It looked like a lazy scrawl, he thought to himself, smiling.


	2. What the Sea Spits Out

Mary Morstan often took walks in the morning along the beach. What didn't often happen, was that she came across unconscious men. Normally her first thought would be that the man had had too much to drink and she would skirt around him or turn back to the castle, but though the man's clothes were in tatters and there was stubble on his chin, the man didn't seem to be drunk as much as ill. Mary could see his skin was pale from the cold and slightly blue.

It turned out that John and Sherlock had ended up two weeks' journey from John's kingdom. It was fortunate indeed for John that he was found by none other than the king's ward. She had him taken to the palace, where the finest doctors there attended to him. He battled hypothermia for almost two weeks before he was deemed healthy again, though he was still weak.

Once it was found out who he was, messengers were sent to his father, though it was still a while before he could travel. In that time he grew close to Mary, and they spent hours each day talking. Mary was aware that there were rumours going around about them but she ignored them, enjoying John's company as he enjoyed hers.

When it was time for him to leave, John was sincerely sad to leave her and she was sad that he was going. The king of this land approved of John as a very polite young man, and privately thought that he would make a very good suitor for Mary.

When John arrived home again, the only person who seemed genuinely glad to see him was to see him was his mother. Harry was too concerned with the bottom of his wine glass to show that it mattered that John was almost at the bottom of the sea and John's father felt that seeing as John was fine now, that was the end of the matter.

John spent most of his time trying to think up how he could have survived, but it didn't make any sense. He supposed that a piece of wood had hit his head and the current had carried him to shore but it was far more likely that he would have drowned, as, by his reckoning, he would have been in the water for more than a day. Some things were just unexplainable, he supposed, unable to work out what was going on.

* * *

By now people were accustomed to Sherlock disappearing for days, sometimes even for weeks, at a time, but Victor refused to accept it as normal this time. He'd constantly pester Sherlock about where he'd been and Sherlock would swim off without him to sit in wrecks, trying to work out how he was going to get to the human world. How he could see the human with the limp and the sandstone hair again.

Sherlock wasn't sure why he wanted to see the human with sandy hair and a limp again, but he did. He wanted to see him almost as much s he wanted to see the human world, see more of humans. He wanted to see what humans did on land. He wanted to see the humans dancing; he wanted to see more of the strange creatures that he'd seen on the surface, the ones with the feathers and beaks.

Sherlock was startled out of his reverie when he heard a strange noise, as though somebody was forcing themself through a hole that was a tiny bit too small. He looked up as Victor came through, his familiar green scales catching the light beautifully.

"How do you even get in these places?" he protested, a soft smile playing on his lips.

Sherlock did not answer, instead rubbing his thumb over the smaller scales by his belly button, wondering what it would be like to have smooth skin there instead.

"Come on, Lock. What's up? You've been acting weird ever since you got back."

Sherlock looked up at Victor coldly, wondering whether he'd get the point and go away.

The other merman just sighed, moving forwards and playing with Sherlock's hair absent-mindedly, floating behind him. "Come on," he said. "You haven't even been teasing Mycroft lately," he joked.

Sherlock rolled his eyes in silence again.

"I swear you haven't spoken since you got back. I thought you were just going to the surface, why did you take so long?"

Sherlock didn't have time to even consider replying before Victor was talking again.

"You know, you shouldn't keep breaking rules like this. You'll end up like that sorcerer, remember? Oh what was his name? Moriarty or something, wasn't it? My mum used to use him as an example to threaten me into being good- What's wrong?"

Sherlock was already swimming off again, leaving through a small window that Victor hadn't noticed. He could feel him following him, but Sherlock was a faster swimmer and he knew how to lose people.

* * *

Banishment was a terrible punishment for the merfolk. They were not allowed to live where the light might touch them, instead forced to go into the darkest regions where the creatures had no need for sight and so floated along, bloated with pale eyes that twitched. The water there was cold and hostile, and tasted foul. Anything that brushed against one's tail felt like it would drag one down in due course.

The sorcerer's house seemed to have a skeleton of its own. It was hidden well, and Sherlock observe it with distaste. He watched the garden full of plants that refused to grow in the light, he knew that they could have healing properties, but they also had poisonous ones, far more potent, and Sherlock didn't doubt for one moment that they were not used for good. The fish that spat poison were tied there, dead and live ones side by side. Sherlock moved through them, careful not to touch anything, though the fish did little more than stare at him blankly, and the plants only moved a little more than was to be expected in the current.

Sherlock came to the door and pushed it open. He never was one to knock. He stepped inside and was surprised to see that everything was neat and orderly, not a hint of poison or anything in it. He moved through, still on edge, the rusty knife he carried gripped tightly in his hand.

"It's rude not to knock."

Sherlock turned around slowly to face who had spoken. He found himself face to face with a short merman. His tail was dark, though Sherlock doubted that it was always like that. He was neat, and seemed dangerous.

"It's also rude to bring weapons into another person's house," the sorcerer added, a satisfied smile on his face.

The sorcerer's voice was unlike anything Sherlock had heard. It sounded as though it had once been soft, resembling something like an Irish accent. Sherlock wondered to himself whether he'd stolen it off a drowning sailor, but that hardly mattered now. The voice sounded as though it was flaking away slowly. Sherlock faced him with disgust, realising that the sorcerer seemed to be made up of many different aspects of previous clients and dying merfolk and humans alike.

"Why are you here, Sherly?" the sorcerer asked, though it was not difficult to guess. He'd been watching him for a while, wanting him here: Wanting to own him. That would come later.

"Guess."

"You want to be human then."

Sherlock assented and the sorcerer's grin grew wider.

"You'll die you know; the morning after he marries someone else."

_Poor Sherlock, _the sorcerer thought. _It really was a pity this was inevitable. _

"I'll just have to make sure that doesn't happen then," Sherlock answered curtly.

The sorcerer just chuckled.

The next day Sherlock sat opposite the sorcerer. "I hear you're quite the chemist," the sorcerer said in his pseudo Irish accent. "So why didn't you just try and make this yourself."

"I prefer not to deal with magic," Sherlock said simply.

The shorter merman laughed again. He could almost taste how Sherlock's voice would be when it was his; because that would be the price, of course.

"Now, as a matter of payment..."

Sherlock looked up at him, an eyebrow raised.

Jim took out the vial he'd prepared and held it between his forefinger and his thumb. "Oh it's not much... I only need your voice." Oh the shock on Sherlock's face was delicious. It was almost a pity to take part of the merman, but it was unavoidable.

"And how am I meant to find him without my voice?"

"Trust me; I'm doing you a favour. You won't have to explain where you're from or anything. You'll manage somehow, Sherly."

Really Sherlock didn't have any choice but to accept, and the sorcerer knew this. As soon as the jerk of head began, the sorcerer grinned.

"Good. Now open wide."


	3. Pins and Needles

The blood almost choked Sherlock, tipping down his throat and gagging him. He could see the red swirl out into the water around him, fading off. Sherlock wondered dimly whether it would attract the sharks before he passed out from the pain. When he woke up he saw the sorcerer with a hint of blood smeared on his cheek and saw a tongue dart out and lick the lips. Sherlock watched him with disgust. It took him a moment to register what was missing. The pain was gone and so was his tongue. Sherlock could still feel it, despite knowing it was gone and it disconcerted him.

"Are you listening?" the sorcerer said with Sherlock's voice. Yes, he liked this one very much. He'd liked the other one too, at the beginning. But it needed replacing, and they lasted much longer when you took them from the living.

Sherlock was shocked to hear his voice coming from another mouth, and he opened his mouth to protest but he couldn't form the words. He closed it again, staring at the sorcerer.

Jim smiled. "Good. You're listening then. When you walk, it will feel as though you are walking on the tips of sharp knives."

Sherlock frowned at the sorcerer.

"Forgot to mention it before," he shrugged.

Sherlock lunged at the sorcerer, propelling himself sharply through the air. Sherlock felt his fingernails dig into the flesh, satisfied. The sorcerer simply gave a choked chuckle and said (in Sherlock's voice),

"Now now, Sherly, don't you want this?" he said, waving the vial near Sherlock's face and the merman swam back a few metres, wishing there was more distance between them, clasping the vial in his hand.

"Swim east," Moriarty said, composed once again. "And you'll be able to find your way from the first piece of land you hit." His tone was more bored now.

Sherlock left immediately, putting as much distance between him and the merman with his voice as possible. His mouth stopped bleeding soon, and it only ached dully. Sherlock was aware he looked a mess, a trail of blood led behind him, dispersing into the water. He stopped at nightfall, catching some fish and eating it, sharp teeth tearing through it neatly, the lack of taste quickly becoming irrelevant. He coupled it with some familiar types of seaweed and fell asleep, allowing him to drift through the water. The current was not so strong down here, and he only had to go east when he woke up to find himself where he wanted.

Sherlock woke up near dawn, flicking his tail and propelling himself towards where he'd seen the sun rise, the vial clasped tightly in his hand the whole time, because it didn't fit properly if he tried to tie it to his waist with the twine he kept there. Sherlock travelled at a leisurely pace, aware that even though he wanted to see the human world, it could not offer many of the things that the sea could.

It was sunset when John had been home almost two months when he noticed something strange in the sea. He couldn't quite put his finger on what it was, but it hardly mattered. Part of the (really quite brilliant) sunset, he supposed. Slowly he got off the rock he was sitting on and walked back along the beach in the direction of the castle.

It was hardly surprising that he tripped over the unconscious man in the dark. He wondered to himself how many unconscious men were washing up lately as he turned and looked down at him. Well, he couldn't just leave him, he thought. Certainly he couldn't leave him lying there naked, he might be hurt. John knelt down and tried to move him and jumped back as the man rolled over, vomiting sea water.

Sherlock stayed in this position for a few seconds, adjusting to the unpleasantness of it all. Firstly, the sand was sticking to his still damp body, he could feel it sticking to his hair, and secondly, sea water was never a problem before. He took into view some things, the human equivalent of flippers. Feet, he thought. Sherlock raised his eyes up to the face of the human in question who was looking concerned. The human said something and Sherlock frowned, not quite hearing, looking down again. He moved away from the sand which he had vomited on, rolling over and lying on his back, looking up for a moment before sitting up. He was interested to examine his new feet and his surroundings on his own, but right now it seemed that would have to wait. The human was talking again, something to the effect of was he okay and what was his name. Sherlock opened his mouth to reply but could make no noise. _Oh_, he thought. He nodded, wanting to be left alone, too distracted to realise that this was the human he'd saved before.

John frowned when the man didn't say anything. Was he a mute? He couldn't be deaf, he was certain he'd heard him speak. He put his arms around the man, pulling him to his feet. "I'm going to get you to the castle," he told him.

From the moment Sherlock first stood on his feet, it felt awful. It was like he was walking on knife points; he wondered his feet weren't bleeding. He leant heavily on the stranger, telling himself he needed to learn to deal with this. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Sherlock dimly wondered whether he knew the sandy coloured hair from somewhere.

John didn't tell his father or let anyone know about the stranger who was almost delirious by the time he got him into the castle. His mother was the first to find out that one of the guest rooms was occupied. John knew she feared that trouble would come of it, but John ignored it. Neither his father nor Harry ever commented on it if he ever noticed. His friend Gregory (though John called him Greg to irritate him on occasion) was curious about him and wanted to know why John brought him back. John just laughed and said he empathised with people who washed up on beaches.


	4. Books in Bottles

_AN: Sorry it's been a while since I uploaded, my dears. I've been suffering from a case of writer's block and being very busy. _

Merfolk rarely wore clothes, the exception being armour when they went into battle, so while to a human the clothes Sherlock wore seemed well-fitted, to Sherlock they felt odd and constrictive. He'd discovered the library on his first day in the castle. He'd sit there and look at the materials that didn't survive under water, examining the runes so different to the ones he was used to.

Other times he'd wander around the castle or the beach, rarely wearing shoes. He often stood with his toes in the damp sand, letting the water surround his feet, enjoying the unfamiliar feeling. This was where John often found him, simply watching the sea. Sometimes John liked to imagine that this stranger had come from the sea, but that never really worked.

John hadn't ever discovered Sherlock's name, after all, Sherlock was hardly going to be his first guess, or his tenth, for that matter. But at any rate, John liked the man and spent a lot of time with him. Sometimes he'd talk about Harry, about his parents, about... anything, and Sherlock would just listen, after all, what else could he do? And it wasn't like he was going to tell anyone. He never seemed surprised, but always seemed fascinated by everything, as though he'd never come across anything like it before. He often came across the man in the library, though he wasn't sure he could read, but he'd pick up his own books too and sit near or next to him, reading.

His mother was fond of Sherlock too, from what she'd seen of him, but still, she urged John to be careful about not getting too attached to the newcomer. John would laugh it off as he usually did. He felt much happier now with Sherlock. When they went anywhere, they were both slow, Sherlock because of the pain in his feet and John would limp along next to him. It made him feel less out of place.

John made sure that Sherlock was aware that he was allowed to attend any state functions that John was going to, if he wished, though he was by no means obliged. One of these particular occasions was a ball. John had asked Sherlock specifically to come, preferring the man's company to those of the stuck up women who wanted to marry him for title and the gentleman who were so arrogant that John wondered how their heads fitted through the doors to the ballroom.

Sherlock had remained close to John all evening, as much as he could. John was often monopolised by men with strange accents and women coyly indicating they would be very much obliged if he would dance with them. John himself encouraged Sherlock to dance, though he was happy enough to stand at the side and observe the men and women in their fine array. Soon though, John introduced him to a woman and, in order to oblige him, Sherlock took to the dance floor. Despite his habit of walking slowly, his dancing was impeccable and graceful, though he had never danced before. Grateful not to embarrass himself, he imitated those around him. He noticed John watching him and smiling, and so he continued to dance with various partners throughout the evening, and the women were all charmed by the mute man who smelt faintly like the ocean breeze.

Sherlock couldn't help but notice that John rarely took to the dance floor, and he was going towards his friend when he noticed the King stop by John and say a few words to John. From John's expression, he disagreed, but he bowed courteously. Sherlock headed over to John once he'd left and touched his arm gently. "Go to the library, Sherlock, I'll be there soon," John said, turning to him.

Technically, his father was right. Inviting Sherlock to the ball was not right. He was not a noble and he was an oddity. Still, John fumed. Sherlock fitted in fine here, he belonged with him.

Sitting in the library, Sherlock looked through books a few time, but left them where he found them, sitting in a chair and waiting for John, wondering why he'd been told to leave. He hadn't protested, his feet hurt incredibly, but he hadn't liked leaving John. He settled into a more comfortable chair and stared out of the window towards the sea, waiting for John. It was hours before John appeared. He didn't say anything, no soft word of apology or explanation that Sherlock expected. He made to stand, but John pushed him back down into the chair and pressed his lips to Sherlock's roughly.

Sherlock could feel John shaking, and he allowed John to kiss him, not sure how he should respond. Soon he felt the prince's tongue against his lower lip, and obediently, he opened. He understood now, he remembered when he was fifteen Victor had tried to show him what most people did, kissing him and holding him tightly. They never spoke of it again.

When John pushed his tongue through Sherlock's lips, practically sitting in his lap now, he had paused when he came across the nothing inside Sherlock's mouth. He'd pulled back slowly, the emotions that had come swirling up and pushing through him now muted, and looked at Sherlock slowly. How had he not noticed? Sherlock must have been a criminal to have his tongue cut out, surely. Dimly he came to realise what he had done. He had kissed Sherlock... his closest friend and, well, a male.

His thoughts were not interrupted by Sherlock, but by a door closed none too gently and a softly cleared throat a second later. Looking up, John scrambled away from Sherlock, and Sherlock stood, his cheeks flushed, uncertain of what to do.

"Your father sent me to fetch you," Gregory said, uncertainly. A once more composed John nodded and left the library, while Gregory looked at Sherlock mildly curiously. Sherlock knew at once that he was going to be considered the initiator by all, a foreign stranger or the prince, who was more likely to try and seduce the other?

"You're lucky it was me; I'm not going to tell the king."

Sherlock nodded, still embarrassed.

"Look, a friendly word of advice... that shouldn't have happened and you shouldn't stick around for much longer. You're too attached to him." Sherlock nodded and left hastily.

When Sherlock took off his shoes that evening in his room, his feet were bleeding.


	5. Pearls to Diamonds

John cursed himself regularly for all that he'd done: he shouldn't have kissed another man; certainly not a stranger (especially one who he knew so little about); and definitely he should not have done so on the night of his engagement party. That was what it was, though he hadn't known at the beginning of the night. It was to announce his betrothal to Mary. There were worse people to be engaged to, in fact, if it weren't for Sherlock, he'd have been thrilled.

Slowly John realised how illogical it all was. He couldn't marry Sherlock even if he loved him, which he couldn't. That would be wildly preposterous. Besides, he liked Mary. He could grow to love her in time, it was a suitable match. He'd had to spend the evening with her after the library and perhaps he was a little discourteous, a little cold and a little distracted. He'd find her and apologise.

Sherlock was sat at the top of one of the castle towers. There was nothing so high that he'd been able to access before his transformation and it was wonderful. He felt as though he could almost touch the clouds. He almost got the impression that he shouldn't be here but nobody had told him to move and so he didn't. He thought dimly about John and smiled almost unnoticeably. Victor had said that people kissed when they loved each other and they cared. So John loved him? He didn't know. He hoped it meant that John cared about him.

It took him a while to notice the blond woman who was sat beside him, waiting patiently for his attention. He glanced over at her and realised he knew her. He'd danced with her briefly the night before.

"You disappeared yesterday," she said in a friendly tone.

_Obviously_, Sherlock thought, and turned to look out at the sea this time.

"You're John's friend. I saw you two standing together for most of last night."

A brief nod was all the answer she would get and she seemed satisfied.

"You care about him, don't you? And he cares about you."

Sherlock felt a brief tug at his stomach when she said that. John _cared_ about him. What exactly did that mean?

"I'm Mary."

_Sherlock, _he thought, though he couldn't say anything. They sat together for quite some time. She left first.

It was John who intruded on his peace after that. "Come on. Let's go down to the beach." He was carrying a basket with food.

Down on the beach, Sherlock ate a little out of politeness, though he'd never liked eating around other people, especially not seeing as he didn't have a tongue. John barely noticed, eating easily and quickly. It was a long time before John spoke. "It's odd, both of us washed up." And then, "We're getting married, Mary and I."

_Oh, _thought Sherlock. _That was why she came to speak to me._

"In a couple of weeks time. Father thought we shouldn't lose much time." Also that I was spending too much time hanging around you, he added in his head. Apparently Harry had thought that there was something 'unseemly' about it.

"You'll be my best man, won't you?" Sherlock wasn't the suitable choice. He should have asked Greg but hang it. He was closer to Sherlock somehow, though he knew nothing about the man. Sherlock nodded after a moment.

Both John and Sherlock drank some of the wine John had brought and John refilled their glasses.

That night, Sherlock slept in John's bed. He felt things that he hadn't even imagined and John... while most of him wanted to be close to Sherlock, it was partly to spite his father and Harry. In the morning, when John woke with a terrible hangover, Sherlock wasn't there anymore and John felt... guilty.


End file.
